To Love with Sir
by ahlade
Summary: Waxen Malfoys have a passion for posing. Enter Glenn Close and John Malkovich.


**Title:** To Love with Sir

There should have been a rule. Something that said 'Stop!' offered guidance, solace, scepticism…something. Something other than the tunnel-vision of teenage conviction…

He thought this often these days, trying as always to apportion blame. The world clicked into place when all the parties had been accused, and absolution granted to self. Why he won and why he lost. But it stubbornly refused to fit into place this time. When he needed it to the most.

He watched the Muggles go past—scurrying, hurrying …oblivious. Dirty and full of self-importance and fleas. Their pathetic self-absorption made him nauseous. When he walked on their stained pavements, when he used their modes of transport, when he adopted their habits and their food…When he saw their squalor, prostrate in lofty doorways in the City, sodden with piss and London fog…

Then he thought of Snape and why he had been subjected to this catechism of living with vermin. He always came back to Snape in the end. Snape, who had done something that himself should have done…was it yesterday? Had it been ten days ago, or ten years?

Snape, who from yellow-toothed, ineffective campus academic had transformed into this … something that made him convulse wetly in his sleep every time he glided close on tendrils of black robes, looked at him with moiré and satin eyes…who made him blush hotly when he did meet him in the little flat in Knightsbridge… Who sometimes looked over his dream shoulder in warm, cloying silence that made his stomach tighten in expectation, as he waited to hear the words of praise: 'Look how perfectly Mr. Malfoy has chopped up his Valerian root!' Only, now, more often than not, the potion's dungeon smelled of cooking lard and boiling cabbage and the desk in front of him held the grey lumpy remains of a Happy Meal. The hair hanging over his shoulder turned from soot black to fair-- as fair as his own…The eyes too his own---arctic grey, then lambent sky, twinkling blue, venomous green, and here he always woke up to sticky sheets.

The bus drew up outside Madam Tussaud's, the lights flickered, once, twice, and he awoke from the daily tabulation of why he thought he was going insane. If one was able to count the ways, measure the steps, could one actually be mad? Surely a fundamental requirement would be an unawareness of the possibility of one's own madness?

He made his way through the employees' entrance, inconspicuous in the garb of Muggle teenagers, who, apparently, liked hoods as much as the average Death Eater. Through one grey-carpeted corridor to another he slouched, until he reached the storage area, nodded to the warder on duty, and entered the vast basement where celebrities-who-were-no-more gathered dust.

Past monarchs and matinee idols he strode, all veiled in shiny plastic, all extravagantly costumed. Past presidents and pop stars, fully-clothed and not, till he reached a dark corner where Bela Lugosi menaced a wall. And his heart stopped at the gap between Charlie Chaplin and Theda Bara.

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Mrs Robinson always liked to finger his hair. He knew how it fascinated women, ever since he was three and Pansy would let him twist the heads off her dolls if he, in turn, allowed her to brush his hair. Mrs Robinson, huffing in her eagerness, would inquire if it were raining outside, or too windy, as she brushed invisible raindrops off his shoulder and caressed his hair into place, fingers smelling of ink and vinegar. Mrs Robinson always stood too close to him while she talked him through his shifts, her breath bearing wafts of bitter coffee and sweet peppermint.

That night, Mrs Robinson needed help with her shopping bags outside Tescos, and Draco was at hand. Before too long he was in the little house in Wood Green, watching the ugly Staffordshire dog on Mrs Robinson's mantelpiece as she writhed beneath him. It rather reminded him of the horrible boarhound that the half-giant at school had. School brought Snape to mind and Snape caused him to collapse weakly over Mrs Robinson, even as her fingers scrabbled at his face, his chest, his hair, in an agony of indecision. Mrs Robinson seemed pleased, even with his dead wizard seed spilling obscenely over her uncouth flesh.

Next morning he was able to report to the galleries as a trainee warder, assisting on the new exhibition in the auditorium.

'Good morning, Mother, good morning, Father,' he breathed, as he polished the brass rails at the foot of the waxworks.

The statue of John Malkovich in seventeenth century regalia inclined its head, and Glenn Close's face broke into a smile.

'I was so worried when they moved us Draco. I'm so glad you found us!' spoke the lady.

Draco continued to polish the rail with added fervour, his lips barely moving. 'I've cast Muffliato, but they have things called cameras that cast images in the sentry room. We must be careful.'

'Any news from Snape?' asked Lucius, 'apparently, this space will be open to the public very soon. It was unfortunate we did not foresee this 'exhibition' when we chose these particular images to transfigure into. I have no intention of being looked at by thousands of Muggles. Today one of the oafs was touching your mother in a manner that almost made me cast Crucio.'

'Don't worry, darling, I did cast a surreptitious Syphilito,' assured Narcissa, pointedly looking at her fan.

'Narcissa! You know we should be wary of casting spells, whatever the provocation!' said Lucius.

'It's very subtle, darling, and virtually undetectable. Grandmother Black cast it all the time on Muggles loitering in the park.'

'I know we are protected from the transfiguration spells being detected by the Ministry because the dementors are still running loose, but we should be careful of casting more spells, Mother. Father is-'

Draco broke of and started to feverishly polish the rail again as Andy, the maintenance man came up, wheeling a stepladder before him.

'There's somethin' wrong wiv the circuits in this area, the camera keeps whitin' out.  
And 'alf the light bulbs 'ave popped,' he said, as he clambered up the ladder and started tapping the little white box in one corner.

He addressed Draco from his perch. 'You might 'ave to keep a better eye on this section, Luke. See nobody takes bits of the costumes away. Glad it's not Kylie 'ere though—kept losing her knickers even wiv two warders and all the cameras on her backside!'

Andy finished examining the camera and clambered down. 'I'll give the security company a call anyway. Keep on yer toes, young Luke!' He ruffled Draco's hair and wheeled his stepladder away, still laughing at the denudation of this Kylie, whoever she was.

Draco breathed out as he turned the corner.

'Muggles,' fumed Lucius, 'so utterly common! Must they touch you every time they speak to you?'

'It must be the cloaking magic that makes their infernal devices putter out. At least we can talk more easily!' said Narcissa, now wiping her wax bosom vigorously with her silk handkerchief.

'Draco darling, could you ask Severus to bring one of his distillations of orange blossom next time he calls? It will make the stench of Muggles much easier to bear!'

'Yes, Mother' said Draco, hoping Lucius had not noticed the rosy tips to his ears at the mention of Snape's name. He wondered if Lucius could see through him. See how he gasped wordlessly every night when he should be working on putting his parents in safety.

He spoke to divert attention from the heat seeping across his face 'Snape says that as far as he knows the Brompton road mansion is undetected, and still unplottable. But he said he needs another week to finish the Plotter potion to make absolutely sure. And he said that the goblins are still maintaining their neutrality, so our accounts are intact.' Clear and concise, just as a Malfoy ought to be.

Lucius broke into an unaccustomed smile. 'Some good news at last. I don't think I can stand being a waxwork dummy for much longer.'

He turned to Draco, his voice pregnant with urgency 'Draco, it is imperative that we find a bargaining tool to take with us to the Ministry's side. Or more appropriately, to Harry Potter's side. Now that Snape has turned traitor to them, they will be even less accepting of turncoats. We will, as we have done extremely successfully in the past, have to bargain our way through this.'

'Now listen carefully, son, your mother and I will move to the Old Brompton road mansion as soon as Snape tells us it is still undetected by the Dark lord. I do not fear the Ministry—without Dumbledore there is no genius there…just plodding thoroughness. I do not think they will expect me to have a Muggle house.'

'They have Granger though--- 'Draco interrupted 'she always comes up with something. Like that sneaky snitch hex she put on that girl who--'

'Ah! Yes, the wonderful performing mudblood! Freaks are very hard to account for… Look at Fenrir… even though the meal he made of one of the Weasley brood has redeemed him somewhat.' Lucius could distil contempt out of thin air.

'Darling, Fenrir was uncouth even before he became a werewolf,' Narcissa said in soothing tones.

'Indeed, darling,' Lucius turned to Draco again. The odd eyes of the actor he had chosen to inhabit were startlingly compelling, and Lucius used them to full effect. 'Draco, you are our eyes and ears while we are suspect in the eyes of both the Ministry and the Dark Lord. And while it is possible to dodge the Ministry indefinitely, the Dark Lord is another matter…'

'I wish that your position in the Dark lord's eyes had not been so compromised by your mother and my disappearance … but at least he does not suspect your collusion in the act.'

'It was time to run, Lucius!' Narcissa protested. 'You know he would have done something to Draco or you on some pretext or other. I thought it best to confide in Severus and rescue you from Azkaban. Though I did want to go away from this. Go somewhere warmer—Mustique perhaps…'

'There is no running away from this, Narcissa. We must see it through. We just need to get a better hand. And we need information. Tell Snape that I want to see him, Draco. He must know why Dumbledore was so weak that night on the tower. What could sap the strength of so powerful a wizard?'

'I'll let him know. Though he always sneaks in and out without notice, so I can't tell when he'll be in next.' Draco sat down with his back to the auditorium wall, his parents posed before him, his future looking grim, his reason stretched thin and taut on the harsh skeleton of recent events.

Perhaps Lucius sensed his turmoil and hopelessness, or it was the politician in him that made him change tack. From domineering, he suddenly became cajoling. 'We must have something of value we can trade for immunity on Potter's side. We could give up Snape—but that would seriously jeopardise our own security. He is too complicit in our wellbeing… Information-'

Draco heard white noise, Snape, white noise-- Betray Snape? Wasn't there supposed to be honour amongst thieves? Trust perhaps? And this was panic that was burgeoning within him, wanting to pull out his hair and bang his head against the foot-worn parquet floor.

Lucius was still speaking. 'Draco, you must tail Harry Potter. Find out what they need. And how we can get it first!'

'I know, darling! Stake out St. Mungo's… One of the Weasley brood will always be visiting the one that Fenrir failed to finish off…'Narcissa offered.

'Well thought of Narcissa. Yes, Draco, do that and find us a bargaining galleon.'

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So there he was, sitting on a bench in St. James' Park, training a pair of omnioculars at the abandoned department store that was St Mungo's. He had worked for two nights to bewitch the omnioculars to recognize Potter, the mudblood and various Weasleys. On the second day of watching, the omnioculars flashed with the names of the trio. And, shortly after, they emerged from the thronging traffic and into the glass windows, oblivious to everything except their threesome freakiness.

He cast a quick disillusionment charm on himself before following them down St James. They walked quickly, untidy heads together; footsteps aligned, and went into a Muggle coffee shop. Draco took out the hip flask he carried with him, drank two sips and went into a convenient red telephone box, and there in the smell of piss amongst the calling card of various dirty Muggle hussies, his insides swirled and retched into the unobtrusive shape of the boy who had ridden on the bus before him that morning. He had chosen him because he had had brown hair and brown eyes and was approximately the same size and build as he.

Staggering, because Polyjuice made him want to split his borrowed skin and step out of it and roll on the sand to get clean again, he entered the café. He could only stay an hour—the boomslang skin, which was a major ingredient in the Polyjuice potion, was now a controlled substance, and he had to guard each precious drop that Snape had managed to procure for him for emergencies. Often, often had he thought of plucking one hair of that black, black hair and look into a mirror with those eyes, really look into them, see in their sable depths what fascinated his pale grey ones so that they could not look away, and when they did, would not look up again, becoming at once gauche and unnatural, unable to function ordinarily as eyes ought to.

But Snape had not been the slyest man living for nought, because he wore a Samson potion on his hair—which rendered it impossible for any of the inky strands to fall without the wearer's knowledge. Draco knew he brewed the potion from leech slime and earthworm bile—that having been the talk at his father's table many summers ago in another lifetime, when he was a child and Snape just a figure to be made fun of… Now he knew better, and felt worse, but had enough sagacity to treasure those scraps of sound and laughter and glean from them knowledge, and enough vanity still to refuse a pot of the Samson Potion, despite the risk his silver hair posed to his and his parents' security. That too was a Malfoy trait.

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Darling Luke came back to work at the Madam Tussaud's after three days off with the 'flu' and was quickly forgiven by Mrs Robinson in the Files and Records room. There he counted the lines of carmine bleeding from her stretched mouth as he pumped his excuses into it.

'It's a horcrux, father. That's what they are looking for. Apparently there are four or five of them, and Potter must destroy them all. One was Slytherin's ring. Dumbledore lost his hand destroying that one, and almost lost his life getting another, a locket, though that one turned out to be a fake.' The precious information was like a litany, delivered in carefully modulated syllables, as befit a Malfoy. Through these words he could forget the bite marks on his chest, the burning on his forearm, the nightly dreams of his professor…

'The other is a relic, a vessel of some sort—something belonging to Helga Hufflepuff. They are going to look at the Churchplate collection at one of the museums, where it might have gone after the second war. I will follow them to see what I can find.'

He had delivered his report in a short staccato burst, knowing that his parents could hear and process the information. It was important that they came to life for as short a span of time as possible to conserve their life-force in the waxworks. He then waved his wand and cast Enervate on the two figures, causing the statues to come alive.

'Well done, Draco! So, the Potter boy seeks to destroy the Dark Lord!' Lucius spoke with pride I his voice, something Draco had almost never heard before.

'The Dark Lord, Lucius?' Narcissa sniffed deeply from the bit of lace drenched in orange blossom that Draco had handed her.

'What other wizard knows the profound art of soul-splitting? And who else would target the Founders' key objects to store fragments of his souls in? Can you see the pattern, son? Slytherin's ring, Hufflepuff's healing cup, Ravenclaw's quill and Gryffindor's sword—what else could they be, these horcruxes?' Lucius wanted to toss his silver locks, Draco could tell, but had to make do with adjusting the wig of the actor he inhabited at the moment.

'The ring was destroyed by Dumbledore—that leaves three, and this locket you speak of. This is good news indeed, Draco, for we have two of the three objects, safe in the Malfoy vaults, unbeknownst both to the Dark lord and to the Ministry! Excellent—these are mighty bargaining galleons indeed!' Had he his own serpent-headed cane with him, this would have been cause for emphatic fondling, but failing that, he made good use of the dress sword that was a part of the costume.  
Narcissa was fluttering in concern; 'Lucius, they are also immensely dangerous! Should the Dark Lord find out you were meaning to hold his life to ransom, he would kill us all in a heartbeat!'

'Our bargaining will be a secret Narcissa. I have no intention of fighting publicly for the other camp. We can turn over one of the horcruxes as a token of our good faith--yes; I see the irony here, darling--and keep the second as security. But it would not hurt to know more about these objects. Draco tail those three again—and tell Snape to hurry up with that potion.'

He was dismissed—his parents held hands for one lingering moment, and then they were mere statues again, caught in a futile gesture, and plastic smiles.

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Muggles sometimes got things marginally right—like this little green square of a garden in the courtyard of the museum. The sun beat down on his back, the birds twittered, bees droned, Muggles kept their distance--he had not felt this warm and languorous since that foul day when his father had been arrested.

He could do nothing but wait—he would have been far too obvious trailing the three into the vault, and now that he knew their search was futile he could relax. He had borrowed the skin of the most pleasant-looking man he could find in all his morning's scouting in Harrod's, and it was not without irony that he looked at his aquiline dark-haired version in the glass doors that led into the dark galleries. He looked like a younger Snape, albeit one who had had benefits of both shampoo and good orthodontic spells. He tries imagining the menace and presence in his own slight form on the bench, and fails, but could have gazed at this Snape that was not Snape all day.

'Shut up, Ron! You have absolutely no idea what she is going through!' the mudblood's sanctimonious screeching woke him from his reverie.

'I have an idea! Tonks is off her head thinking he's still on our side. The bastard murdered-' The redhead quietened down at the insistent punching of his arm, but Draco could still hear them because of the enhanced hearing spell he had cast on himself.

'He murdered Dumbledore, Hermione! Now in my book, that makes the bastard worthy of being gilded and shredded to bits by hungry nifflers!' Even the blood-traitor's punishments were puerile and senseless.

'Shh, Ron! Harry will be here any second. Let's not talk of that. Let's just concentrate on the task at hand. All we have to do is find the likely-looking goblets and present them to this.'

And she opened her fist to show the oafish lout something small and black which Draco could not identify at the distance.

'Hermione is that-- is that—blimey, Hermione, you cut up the Sorting hat!' The Weasel looked even more idiotic when outraged.

'Ron, the Parallelo spell only works if we have two things of the owner in close contact. What else do you suggest we use?' The mudblood seemed out of patience with His Dumbness.

'Well, its very old…I thought-'

'Besides, it asked me to! I went up to McGonagall's office as she was storing it away, and asked to try it on one last time. It sensed my questions and said it belonged to all four founders, so I used my nail clippers.' Yes, it could hardly be wrong that she had destroyed a thousand year-old artefact because she was a Gryffindor fighting on the side of the Chosen One who Lived. Pshaw!

At this point Potter shuffled up, looking pale and unsavoury. Immediately, the mudblood's face scrunched up into a look of constipated concern that would have been ridiculous even without the matching expression on the Weasel's face, which because of the freckles, looked even uglier.

'Are you ok, Harry? Would you like a coffee?' she said, looking like a hen caught out in gale force winds as she stood between the tall boys on either side. Did they pity fuck, Draco wondered? 'I'll get us sandwiches…' she said in a placating voice, and bustled off to the refreshment stand in the shadow of the west wall.

Meanwhile, the Freckled Horror was speaking to the King of Pain. 'Mate, I reckon we should tell McGonagall and the rest what we're up to. I mean, it wouldn't have been half this hard to look at a few goblets if the Ministry knew what we were up to.'

The giantly ugly King of Pain was staring at the grass as if it would unwind and sting him in the foot, and he had to keep it still by sheer force of will. And, of course, unadulterated ugliness. Could he never brush that hair? 'I don't want anybody to know, Ron. I don't trust… I mean I never trusted him, but Dumbledore did, and I don't want to make the same mistake he did.'

Now they were both drumming their large, oafish feet against the wooden bench. The mudblood puttered up, wearing her concerned face, and handed out food to them. Would she eat it for them and regurgitate directly into their gullets, Draco wondered.

She did open Potter's sandwich for him while the latter apparently tried to figure out how shoelaces worked.

'Harry?' she said tentatively, to the Scarhead, as he watched something brown and horrible drip messily onto his lap. 'You know, I don't think it's entirely wrong that McGonagall and Tonks are giving Snape the benefit of the doubt.'

'What?' he shouted, drawing the eyes of everybody in the radius of twenty miles to his ill-mannered self, but she persisted. 'Only think, Harry, why would he turn traitor now, when he could have done so long ago? And Dumbledore did trust him and Dumbledore was no fool. Didn't you tell us he saw through Riddle even when he was everybody else's blue-eyed boy?'

'Snape is a traitor. And a murderer!' The sandwich lay mutilated and torn on the grass, as Scarcrow towered over the Bushhead. 'Come on Ron, we have work to do!'

And he stormed off with the Weasel, leaving the mudblood sitting on the bench all alone. Draco gave it five minutes, and then went over.

'May I sit here?' he asked, 'the other benches are in the shade…'

She looked up at him, squinting into the sun, and nodded absently. He sat down, pleased he had chosen handsome today.

'Hi, I'm Luke.'

'Hermione.'

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'-- Miss Granger were so well acquainted, Draco.'

Draco opened his eyes to light and this cryptic statement, and a brain that threatened to burst open as if under the Popcorn curse. Snape stood before him, having addressed him with the perplexing remark, looking down at him under the covers, with his head resting on something that definitely wasn't a pillow.

He looked at what it was, and it turned out to be the 'Miss Granger' Snape had been referring to. That much penetrated his brain, before he sat up, forgetting how his head hurt, or how his eyes felt like they had been inlaid with shards of glass. His stomach had made its disagreement to the Polyjuice and liberal amounts of Muggle alcohol known in no uncertain terms, and pulling the sheets off the shrieking mudblood, he dashed to the bathroom. He had to leave the sheets midway though, because he got too tangled in them to move after two steps. As he emptied his stomach in the toilet bowl, he thanked God fervently for being blessed with a nice arse. And for the fact that Snape had chosen to follow that arse with his eyes, rather than look at the naked form of the mudblood groping for her clothes.

When he had cast Evanesco on the mess in the bathroom, and dry-heaved his way to sanity, he made his way back into the bedroom, where only Snape awaited, seated in the one comfortable chair in the room, fingers steepled before him.

His face was impassive, and he did not acknowledge Draco's entrance. Draco heard the sounds of morning traffic sludging on wet tarmac magnified a thousand times, the mechanical screaming of an ambulance siren somewhere in Chelsea, the bark of a dog running in the park. And yet Snape remained silent. 

Finally, he awoke as if from a dream, and looked directly at Draco, who knew better than to turn away.

'You knew the risk you ran Draco—I do not even want to know what you thought you were doing. I have had to Obliviate Miss Granger and apparate her to a back alley in Soho. It is unlikely, however, that the subterfuge will last extended scrutiny from her. Of all the people to choose--'

'I was looking for information. She knows about—about Potter. How we can get on their side again' he said sullenly. Why could he not sound urbane and annoyed at the same time, why did his voice rise so?

'Now she certainly knows where you live, and be sure she will tell the Ministry.' Snape sounded unimpressed by his reasoning. 'Thankfully, I have just tested the Plotter potion and you can move into the mansion today. Your parents have already moved there. I came, in fact, to tell you the good news, and was confronted with this.'

Draco should have wanted to whoop, to celebrate—but all he wanted to do was to sit still while his stomach settled.

'You must lie low now,' Snape said. 'Do not set foot out of the house without Polyjuice. Now that you have access to the stores in the mansion you will be able to brew an adequate supply. Try not to use any wand save the one that you have now. It is untraceable to the Malfoy family. Remember, with Ollivander working for the Dark Lord, any wand-work arousing his suspicion can be traced to its wand and thence its owner.'

Draco could still not move.

'Here,' said Snape, as he held out a little vial of pale green liquid, 'this should help.'

It smelled of sage and lemon, and Draco downed it without thinking. 

'Would that I was thinking of poisoning you, Draco, it would be all too easy.'

'But you're not,' Draco replied, for once looking into Snape's eyes, fair eyelashes holding the morning light, pupils contracting to nothing.

'No, I am not,' Snape replied, hooded eyes staring into the pale grey ones. Their eyes held for one long moment, and then Snape stepped back and with barely a pop, disapparated.

After using a dousing spell to remove all trace of his presence from the flat, Draco made his way up the Old Brompton road. He thought of the night he had spent with the mudblood. He was used to prostituting himself to women now, it seemed; he did not mind the tainted saliva or odorous mucous or sour breath so much anymore. It caused barely any retching now.

She had been keen for company, he for information, and so Draco had taken her across the road to a hotel bar where he plied her with girly cocktails and liqueur filled chocolates. He read her mind then, the horcruxes, sitting on the surface, yet hidden by her determination to be secretive about them; her adoration of Saint Potter and her disenchantment with the Weasel; her horrible fear of choking on the long strings she cleaned her teeth with--Muggles were truly strange and had repulsive personal habits--and there, buried beneath a thousand facts and statistics and mnemonics, he found something guilty and subversive. So similar to his own, that it startled him, the guilty secret: dirty fantasies in dark rooms, obsession that ended in orgasm, reverence of the same dark form, arousal at mention of a name… and all hidden , hidden beneath guilt, and self-loathing and so familiar to his questing brain. Snape glided there too. In the Gryffindor mudblood's squeaky clean Muggle-bred brain, he lived, and rutted there too in imagination, sometimes roughly against a potions table, sometimes tenderly on silly petals and clouds. But what the Weasel could not do with his fumbling hands and eager kisses, Snape could with one glance-- make the mudblood, wet, warm and wet, dying for release.

This Draco gleaned, while Hermione babbled about friends and life and libraries, and his mouth made appropriate sounds to keep her lulled. He also saw himself—bound in perplexities and annoyance, in the camp meant for 'enemies'. It seemed she knew that there was more to him than that casual insolence, and yet, despite all he had achieved, he was no more than the annoying bully she had slapped in third year. It was lowering, if nothing else. But with the Polyjuice inside mixing with the alcohol he had drunk, it was also arousing.

He did not know who it was that initiated the first sticky chocolate-flavoured kiss, in each sick brain was the infection of a potions' master, in each heart a hunger to feel that dark touch and sly power. And he sensed… what was it? A disturbing collusion on her part with his depredation on her deepest, darkest thoughts, a willingness to let this be her catharsis: this getting pissed in a bar with a stranger. This, more than anything sent the blood rushing to his penis, and filled his head with the buzzing of must-have sex. They must have stumbled to the flat down the road, caught in the hormones and the excitement of a kindred spirit—she drawn by his likeness to Snape, he by His image in her brain.

He remembered very little of it now, except that it been quick and rough, face down and hard, and she had screamed like she did not mean to stop.

As the ornate gates that guarded the Arts and Crafts mansion secluded behind a high wall and dense trees clanged shut, Draco knew his liaison with the mudblood had barely begun…  
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End file.
